


Equity

by stillaseeker



Series: Strategy Games [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, City/Banking AU, Consulting AU, Dubious Morality, Happy Ending, In Facebook terms, It's bloody Complicated, Jealousy, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Office Sex, POV John Watson, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rape/Non-con Elements, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-14 10:37:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillaseeker/pseuds/stillaseeker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Equity (n.)</em>
  <br/><em>1. The quality of being fair and impartial.</em>
  <br/><em>2. A stock or any other security representing an ownership interest.</em>
  <br/><em>3. On a company's balance sheet, the amount of the funds contributed by the owners plus the retained earnings (or losses).</em>
</p>
<p>Sherlock licks a long, nasty swipe up John's ear. 'I can feel your pulse.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Equity

**Author's Note:**

> So... I had to get this out of my system. No real consultants were harmed in the making of this work. Any resemblance to real people or companies is purely coincidental.
> 
> It's probably a whole new level of geekiness to find financial puns amusing... Obviously, I'm beyond help.

**Equity (n.)**

1\. The quality of being fair and impartial.  
2\. A stock or any other security representing an ownership interest.  
3\. On a company's balance sheet, the amount of the funds contributed by the owners plus the retained earnings (or losses).

**Etymology:** From Latin _aequitas_ , from _aequus_ 'equal'

::

It takes John a moment to realize what he's seeing.

'Get the _fuck_ off my laptop, Sherlock.'

They're in the office. It's eleven in the evening – John just stepped out to make his eighth cup of tea, he still has five Powerpoint slides to finish, he hasn't even begun to run the data for the model and he can't bloody take this anymore. His Italian leather shoes sink into plush carpeting as he strides towards his desk, slamming his laptop down and nearly catching Sherlock's fingers.

Sherlock's eyes rise to meet his. Grey. Grey the colour of cinder, of mercury and rare, poisonous substances.

'What the hell do you think you're doing?'

Sherlock steeples his fingers underneath his chin. Around them, the office is quiet – the next occupied desk is in the west-facing bay, at least twenty metres and a wall away. Behind them, the silhouettes of empty chairs and tables lie enshrouded in the red-tinted dimness of the emergency light – Dimmock had turned off the overheads when he left an hour ago. John had tried not to feel disheartened when he realised he was at least three hours of work behind the rest of the team - four if he actually bothered to make his slides look pretty and not like a bloody intern had done them.

That's the problem with these kinds of cases – you can't afford to be off your game on a three week due diligence. You can't afford to be _distracted._

'Get off my desk.'

Sherlock swivels around on John's chair. The movement brings his face perilously close to John's chest, to the vee of his neck where, in a fit of frustration, he'd yanked off his tie and loosened his shirt collar an hour ago. The accounts had been swimming in front of his eyes – none of the figures _reconciled_ and he kept seeing Sherlock's fingers –

'You've been avoiding me.'

That voice – it gets John every time. It reminds him of hours spent in Sherlock's shitty flat, of post-coital smoke curling in the dirty half-light of a London dawn, of the throaty moan Sherlock likes to make when John takes his wet cock into his mouth and suckles hard enough to make Sherlock's fingers dig into his hair and _pull._

'Right,' John huffs an unamused laugh. 'I wonder why that is.'

Sherlock's eyes narrow into slits, like grey light piercing through cracks. 'Watch your tone, Consultant. You've been remarkably impertinent so far, and I've been very - indulgent.'

John stills.

He'd nearly killed himself getting this promotion. Two years being just that little bit keener, smarter, hungrier than everyone else. Going above and beyond on every project till he'd nearly keeled over in exhaustion. It's worth it, though - it's all worth it, to watch sterling performance reviews stream in and bonuses fatten up his bank account. Enough to pay off Mum's bills, enough for the chemotherapy, even a little extra to send Harry off to rehab. Finally - enough.

There was a time when John thought he'd do something different with his life. He'd almost gone into Medicine – his granddad had been a WWII war veteran with the RAMC, and growing up, John had yearned for something he hadn't really known, something that felt like the rumble of artillery shells and the drugged elation of adrenaline, of performing under pressure – _under fire –_ and of being an essential cog in a bigger, functioning whole. He'd wanted to spend his life doing something that mattered, something that changed lives.

That had been before the news of Mum's illness. If John were given to bouts of philosophical reminiscence, he'd probably describe his life as being cleanly dissected into two halves – before the news, and after. Seeing as he works ninety-hour weeks as a minimum, John doesn't have time for such mind-rotting bollocks.

'I-I'm sorry, Mr Holmes.' John forces the words through the sudden dryness of his throat.

Holmes & Company is the City's premier consulting firm. Their name is whispered in the echelons of the FTSE Top 100 – _hire Holmes_ , so the saying goes, _and watch your share price skyrocket._ They'd turned around such sinking ships as Sainsbury's and Marks and Sparks. They'd dragged Barclays and RBS from near bankruptcy after the financial crisis into something resembling profit. When they're hired, shareholders breathe a sigh of relief, Board members stop contemplating ending things with their third – or most expensive – mistress and start perusing yacht catalogues. It's rumoured that Mycroft Holmes, the firm's managing director, is actually secretly running the British government.

When the offer from Holmes & Company had landed in his letterbox, John couldn't believe his luck. He'd applied on a whim, knowing that they usually only took in Oxbridge grads, and the crème de la crème at that. The interviews had gone well, though – the final interviewing Partner, Lestrade, had seemed like a surprisingly normal and down-to-earth sort, and John had hoped.

He'd heard about Sherlock since he'd started as a lowly Associate. It was impossible not to. His last name, after all, was on the masthead, and rumours ran rampart that he was a bona fide genius, a loose cannon, a psychopath with the unerring instincts of a hound on the scent. All cases cracked open under his slim fingers – he'd take one look at a client's data and could string a story of what exactly had gone wrong, and better than that, how to put Humpty Dumpty and all the king's horses back on the path to profitable growth again. He made clients cry. He was an office myth. The youngest equity Partner and achingly, _infuriatingly_ gorgeous.

Sherlock tips his head upwards. His dark curls brush against the fine cotton of John's pinstripe shirt. 'Apology... accepted.'

John's gaze lingers on the deceptively sweet curve of Sherlock's mouth. What a beautiful cherub he must have been, when he was young – before that lovely mouth had learnt to spew venom.

John clears his throat, steps back. 'I've got masses of work to get through –'

Sherlock slides a hand up John's upper thigh, lingering just below the pubic bone, giving a squeeze to the hard muscle that's developed after all the running John's taken up on weekends. The breath expels from John's lungs.

'I want to fuck you over your desk.'

John's face flushes – he can feel the blood rising to his cheeks, and pooling down in his cock.

'Jesus – _Christ_.'

Sherlock smiles. It starts with the deepening of his dimple – unnoticeable except at a close distance – and blooms into a slow, sinuous curl of that lush mouth as his head dips. In one long, graceful movement, Sherlock swipes his tongue up the length of John's cock through his trousers. John gasps, his back arching instinctively, and Sherlock digs his fingers into the flesh around John's hipbones. The front of John's trousers turns damp from Sherlock's saliva.

'Sherlock – stop it. Stop –'

Sherlock's deft fingers – one of the persistent rumours around the office is that he plays the violin when he needs to think – pull at John's belt. Within moments, John's trousers are down around his ankles, and he's standing in his shirt and boxers in the middle of a hive of cubicles. Christ – they're not even behind locked doors.

Sherlock lowers his head again, and licks the tip of John's cock through finely spun cotton. John's legs buckle; he grasps at Sherlock's shoulders, feeling firm flesh undulate under silk.

'Delicious.' Sherlock circles his fingers around John's cock in a delicate grip, weighing it as if he's examining a specimen at a market, or a laboratory. The front of John's boxers is rapidly turning translucent from pre-come. 'Will you beg me to stop, if I lick every inch?' Sherlock's tongue teases the flared ridge of flesh around the tip. He hums as he licks the exposed slit with small, kittenish flicks.

'Fuck. _Fuck.'_

'Will you cry, John?' Sherlock slips John's boxers down his hips, and John moans, closing his eyes against the sight of himself naked under the office's electric lights. His cock bobs against Sherlock's face, leaving a trail of wet across one cheekbone. 'If I do this for hours and refuse to let you come?'

John twists his body, his spine a curved bow as Sherlock takes his cock into the soft, wet, unholy warmth of his mouth. Sherlock is a _fiend_ – he sucks with diligent fervour, flicking his tongue tauntingly around John's cockhead, a hint of teeth scraping against the underside and making John groan, the muscles in his abdomen trembling. He needs to keep quiet – Jesus, there're still people around, just another office away –

John's breaths sound like sobs. He can barely think, not when Sherlock – Sherlock –

Sherlock smoothes a hand underneath John's shirt, up his bare back, and it's that shivering sensation of Sherlock's fingers touching bare skin, rubbing soothing motions against the vulnerable sweep of his spine, that sounds an alarm in John's head.

John digs his fingers into Sherlock's scalp, and pulls. There's a protesting sputter – and John _grins_ at the thought of making a Holmes sound so undignified – before Sherlock lets John's cock slide wetly out of his mouth. He looks at John through lowered eyelashes, his mouth an obscene, slick shade of pink. John fights the urge to slap him.

'Don't – don't touch me.'

Sherlock's voice is a guttural curl of syllables wrapping like smoke around John's cock. 'I wasn't aware I needed permission.'

'I – what the _fuck –_ you can't just –'

Sherlock leaps to his feet before John can react. He's still fully clothed, a fact John hasn't appreciated until now, when he can feel every inch of Sherlock's designer suit pressed against him, the drag of wool and silk against his thighs, his pelvis. Sherlock uses both hands to cup John's chin, tipping his head upwards so that he can take his mouth.

John tastes himself in each swipe of Sherlock's tongue against his own. Musk, salt, bitterness – Sherlock nibbles at John's bottom lip, teasing little nips fuelled by something that could be mistaken for affection, and horrifyingly, John feels the start of tears prickle behind his eyelids. He moans into Sherlock's mouth – Sherlock drags his head back, his body pressing closer, and John can't help it. He kisses him. He kisses Sherlock back until he can't breathe, his hands reaching out to scrabble at the front of Sherlock's suit, ripping open the buttons of Sherlock's shirt.

He feels the instant Sherlock's lips curve smugly against his own, before Sherlock steals his breath again. God, he loves Sherlock's mouth. His mind protests, warning bells ringing in his ears, but Sherlock does something with his tongue, dipping and thrusting against his own in a crude parody of sex, and John doesn't care, he doesn't care – he's so far past caring –

Sherlock's nipples are sensitive. John scrapes his fingernails unkindly across the tight nubs, swallowing Sherlock's gasp as they pearl beneath his fingertips. John untangles their mouths, ignoring the low, petulant moan that falls from Sherlock's lips, and bends his knees to nuzzle against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock tastes like sweat. He smells wonderful – like bergamot and wet foliage and the tang of low-tar cigarettes. John flicks his tongue against Sherlock's nipple, feeling Sherlock's fingers tighten in his hair, and sucks.

' _John.'_

Sherlock's head falls forwards, and John imagines the picture they must make – the half-naked Partner and the Consultant on his knees. He swirls his tongue against one nipple, then the other, before trailing his mouth along the soft, downy hairs that snake past Sherlock's abdominal muscles towards his groin. Both pairs of hands tug at Sherlock's belt, his suit trousers.

'John. Bend over the desk.'

There's a moment of blinding sanity, as the clamour of logic in his head bursts through a red fog of lust – and John's entire body trembles. His chest aches. _What the bloody fuck am I doing?_

He's about to stand up, to _run –_ but Sherlock's a step ahead of him. Sherlock's hands grip his wrists – the strength of those arms always surprises him – and pull John up, pivoting his smaller form in front of his own, until John's belly presses against the hard edge of his desk. His laptop whirrs innocently – Excel printouts are swept to the floor as Sherlock drags John's arms above his head, pinning him down. Sherlock's legs sidle between John's spread thighs, and John feels the pull of muscle as Sherlock edges his legs further apart.

'Stop. Sherlock – please stop.' His words are nearly soundless; breathless gasps.

Sherlock leans forward. His cock – that indecent, familiar length - presses against the upturned curve of John's arse, sliding down until it jabs unerringly against a tight ring of muscle. John's knees buckle; he would have slipped to the floor if it weren't for Sherlock's unrelenting grip.

Sherlock's deep voice tickles his ear. 'You love it, John. You love me.'

John moans as Sherlock's fingers breach him. Wet with spit, two fingers at once. It feels like the worst kind of trespass – the slow, filthy glide of Sherlock's long fingers inside his arse, dragging against his walls. It feels mind-bendingly glorious.

Sherlock licks a long, nasty swipe up John's ear. 'I can feel your pulse.'

John's hips jerk, making Sherlock's fingers scrape roughly inside him. He keens – a low, shameless sound like an animal in pain. He's so aroused that he feels light-headed. Sherlock slips in another finger; it's an obscenely tight fit. John bites his lips against a scream as Sherlock scissors his fingers, stretching him wide.

'I saw you.'

Sherlock doesn't even pause. His clever fingers flutter in John's arse, toying with his hole. John lifts himself up until he's tip-toeing, his arms braced against his desk, his hand-scrawled notes – _what's the_ _gearing ratio? check the leverage -_ blurring before his eyes. He feels stretched thin, ephemeral, balanced precariously atop his work and the slender width of Sherlock's fingers.

'I saw you with Miss Adler.'

Sherlock jabs the bundle of nerves that make up his prostate. John _writhes_. Sherlock's other hand comes up, stuffing his fingers into John's mouth and silencing his cry.

'As ever, you see, but do not observe.'

John feels Sherlock's cock parting his arsecheeks. The tip of Sherlock's cock is leaking so much that pre-come dribbles down John's thighs - he's as wet as a girl. John feels his stomach clench – he feels like he's coming apart.

Irene Adler. Their newest, most demanding client. John had felt distantly impressed by her cool intelligence; had laughed with the rest of the lads when Anderson had nearly walked into a glass door, ogling her low-cut blouse, but everything had changed the night after their first Board meeting, when she'd – uncharacteristically – stayed back to help him put away the slide projector, and whispered _I fucked your boyfriend last night_ into his ear.

They'd never articulated exactly what this was – this thing between Sherlock and himself. It's ridiculous to feel betrayed. He's fucking around with his _boss_ , for Christ's sake. It isn't as if they'd ever made each other any promises. It'd started out when John discovered Sherlock's dark sense of humour and it'd evolved into late nights spent making Sherlock's tea and early mornings drugged with nicotine-laced kisses. Before he knew it, it's been six months and the longest relationship he's ever had. It's ridiculous, utterly, _fucking_ ridiculous to feel like his heart's breaking.

'What did you see?'

'You – you kissed her.' John gasps as Sherlock's fingers withdraw; his arsehole clings to them zealously – he doesn't want to let Sherlock go. Oh, god. He flushes all the way to his ears; he can feel them turning bright red. 'You kissed her. You pressed your fingers against her lips.'

'John.' Hearing that voice now, that familiar, condescending undertone of _how can you be such an idiot_ , nearly breaks John apart. He sobs, feeling Sherlock's cock nudge against his arsehole.

'She kissed _me._ '

Sherlock slides into him with one rough thrust. John screams, his body twisting on Sherlock's cock. He feels stuffed, stretched open; Sherlock's cock sinks past all his defences, all resistance. His body clenches around Sherlock's erection, milking it with something like greed. Sherlock withdraws, and thrusts again. His hips snap forward until he's balls-deep.

'I don't fuck women, John.' Sherlock pushes in and withdraws, one achingly rough thrust after another. John can't breathe – all sensation, all thought, is focused between his legs, where Sherlock is forging him anew, shaping him around his cock. 'I'm fucking  _you_. _'_

Sherlock bites down on John's shoulder. Dark patches edge in on John's vision, as he feels the sweat from Sherlock's hairline against the shifting muscles of his back. Sherlock mouths wet kisses down John's spine. His hips judder brutally; a remorseless rhythm.

'Sherlock – '

John's fingers are tingly, numb. He can't do anything but ride each swell of Sherlock's cock. 'Sherlock – '

'Shush, John.' Sherlock's thrusts slow, and John whimpers, his hips lifting, begging unashamedly for more. Sherlock circles his hips; his cock rubs tantalisingly against his prostate and John feels like he's losing his mind. 'I own you. Every time you submit to me, you're ceding share. Think of this as me –' Sherlock licks his temple, 'calling in my equity stake.'

John tightens, all over, his mouth opening in a soundless _O_ as Sherlock's hips blur in motion, each deep thrust nudging against John's sensitive prostate and John _screams_ as one devastatingy violent thrust spears him on Sherlock's cock, the momentum carrying the both of them halfway across the table as John's arms give way, as his vision swims blood-red and he ejaculates all over his own laptop.

John blacks out. In the dimness of his mind, just before he succumbs to oblivion, he feels Sherlock's fingers wrap around his own, and has the odd, drifting thought – like the last piece of the puzzle slotting into place - that equity ownership goes both ways.

 

::

**Accounting definition:**

_**Owner’s equity** , often just called **equity** , represents the value of the assets that the owner can lay claim to. In other words, it's the value of all the assets after deducting the value of assets needed to pay liabilities. The accounting equation indicates how much of the assets of a business belong to, or are owned, by whom._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first finished BBC Sherlock fic! Please leave a comment if you liked it - I adore feedback.
> 
> The wonderful indyfalcon did a drawing for this fic! See it here on tumblr: http://indyfalcon.tumblr.com/image/53456401572 XD


End file.
